Worst Case Scenario, page 15
Bishop studied the trio as the two men wielding the bats approached. It was clear from the way they held them they had no training in effectively using them as weapons. These guys were ranch hands, darkly tanned and tough as nails, but not trained fighters. If they planned to shoot him, they would have already done that. Looked like they were instructed just to bounce him around. Of course, beating him senseless and rolling him down the mountain to his death was also a distinct possibility. Either way, he needed to deal with these two goons with the bats first. But Bishop needed a distraction.
The youngest guy approached, tossing the bat from one hand to the other and smirking. Bishop recognized him from last night outside Cora’s home. He had a small band-aid on his neck where Bishop had pricked the skin with his knife. As the guy closed the distance on Bishop’s left, the older, bigger guy holding the bat with both hands closed in on the right.
Only one chance. Bishop met eyes with the kid with a smirk and teased. “Cut yourself shaving, or are you even old enough to shave, yet?”
The man’s sneered vanished, and he released a guttural roar as he tightened his grip on the bat and charged. He swung it hard and fast about waist level. Bishop jumped away and arched his back out. The edge of the bat brushed the front of his shirt.
The guy was off balance for a split second while completing his swing. Bishop lunged for the bat and folding his hands over the kid’s hands, locking them tight while shifting to the left and swinging the bat in a high arc. The man followed, doing a complete flip. He hit the ground hard as his wrist snapped. He screamed and rolled away from Bishop.
Bishop turned in time to see the bat from the guy on his right coming straight toward his head. With the bat taken from the first assailant, Bishop ducked and blocked the blow. The dull thud of wood against wood echoed as the bats met, sending shock waves down Bishop’s arms. He did a sweeping kick against the man’s left knee. The knee cap shifted to the inside of the leg as the guy cried out and collapsed. Bishop quickly moved in behind him as he fell and, using his left arm, applied a chokehold. He twisted the guy around, using him as a shield against the one with the .45 pistol.
Bishop drew his Sig Sauer and had it pointed at the fellow by the truck before anyone realized what happened. “Drop the gun,” Bishop said.
The man lowered the gun to his side, let it fall to the ground, and raised his hands.
“Good choice, “Bishop said. He dropped his shield, and the man fell to the ground, still writhing in pain and holding his knee. Bishop kept the guy by the truck covered and approached. “Kick the gun to me.”
The guy kicked the gun hard, and it slid to within inches of Bishop’s foot.
“Turn around,” Bishop ordered.
When he turned, Bishop picked up the gun and threw it into the deep ravine to his left. He struck the man hard in the back of the head with the front of his pistol. The guy grunted and dropped to his knees, grasping his head. Blood oozed between his fingers.
Bishop surveyed his afternoon’s work. “You know if you guys keep coming back up here, you’re eventually going to make me mad.” He opened the driver’s door of the truck, cranked the vehicle, and put it in gear, turning the wheel as far as he could to the right before releasing the emergency brake. Because it was already pointed downhill, that was all it needed to start rolling. After about ten feet, the right wheel found the edge of the road. The truck rolled almost sixty yards down the ravine before it found a pine tree large enough to stop it.
Bishop motioned with his pistol. “Okay, you two on your feet and help your friend.”
The ones who could still walk put their disabled companion between them, and the trio staggered and hobbled their way down the road. Threatening clouds rolled overhead, and with the heavy tree canopy, it got darker and darker as the smell of rain moved in. Wind whipped the giant pines back and forth as Bishop got back into his SUV. By the time he drove the last mile, torrents of rain blew almost horizontal as he pulled up to Cora’s.
He sat for a minute, hoping it might slack up. He wasn’t too surprised when it didn’t. His windshield wipers were going as fast as they could, and the sudden temperature drop fogged the windows inside the SUV.
McFadden had upped the ante by sending the three idiots after him. What was he afraid of? It was clear they hadn’t meant to kill him. No, they wanted to rough him up a little in hopes he’d leave. Made no sense unless McFadden felt threatened. Through the blurred windshield, Bishop detected movement on the tower steps. He hardly recognized Cora slowly making her way down the tower—looked miserable, like a drowned rat. Her Forest Service jacket had no hood, and her short, black hair hung limp around her face and neck. She was soaked but held on to the handrail, taking one slow step at a time. With her gaze and total concentration on the steps, she had not even noticed he’d pulled up to the side of her house.
Just before she got to the bottom, Bishop made a run for it. Cold rain pelted him, and he opened the front door for her just as she rushed in. Her eyes widened when she recognized him, and she must have slipped or lost traction because she began falling forward at the threshold. Bishop quickly grabbed her around the waist and pulled her inside. Her momentum caused her to swing around into his waiting arms. Their faces were inches apart. Her eyes fixed on his. He softly kissed her. She grabbed his face and pulled him closer, their lips bonding tighter.
They continued kissing and undressing without a word, peeling off the other’s wet clothes until they stood naked. Cora led him to the bathroom, started the shower, then jumped up, wrapped her legs around his waist, and kissed him hard. They slowly bathed each other in the hot water with a thick, soapy sponge. The drops cascaded over and around them, encasing them in a soapy bubble of passion. They toweled each other dry, and Cora knelt, drying Bishop’s lower legs with the towel. She looked up with a childlike expression, and he held out his hands. She took them, and he pulled her to her feet and softly kissed her neck.
He carried her to bed, and they spent the rest of the afternoon making love. Outside, the cold wind lashed the sides of the house, and rain fell in sheets pounding the roof. The thunder rumbled, and lightning flashes through the windows lit up the bedroom walls, but they hardly noticed with their bodies intertwined. An hour later, she nuzzled his cheek and kissed his ear. The room was dark and cold. She slowly ran her hand down his inner thigh and up to his crotch.
“I’m hungry,” he said.
“Hungry for me?” she goosed him in the ribs.
He rolled toward her. “Always.” And kissed her nose. “But right now, I’m starting the fireplace. I missed lunch. Any leftovers?”
“I have a better idea,” she said. She pushed the sheet and heavy blankets aside and slid out of bed, grabbed a robe, and headed for the kitchen.
Bishop found a pair of clean jeans in his bag and a warm, light gray sweater. Before he finished dressing, Cora ran into the bedroom, quickly rubbing her arms and shivering. “I’m freezing—think I’ll warm up with another shower—supper’s in the oven.”
Bishop marched into the living room, threw a few logs in the fireplace, and started the fire. Just as he finished, the ringing sound from his wet pants still lying on the floor caught his attention.
He rummaged through the pockets and found his cell. “Bishop here.”
The voice was Lesa’s. “I got the information you requested.”
Bishop peeked at his watch; yup did it again. Lesa dictated that all the analysts she supervised respond in less than twenty-four hours to a request from the field.
“Do you want to receive the information encrypted?”
“Naw, pass it in the clear.”
Lesa’s voice sounded faded, probably the storm’s interference. “You hear me, okay, Bishop?”
“Sure—go ahead.”
“This McFadden guy is a doozy,” she laughed. “He was born Clark Augustus McFadden in 1951. His father owned mines and a mining company that furnished the US with about seventy percent of its uranium ore during the ’50s and ’60s. By the time Clark took over in the late 70s, his dad was New Mexico’s first billionaire. When he died, he passed his wealth over to his only child, Clark. He’s involved with several political action committees to elect conservative candidates. Also, he’s buddies with the Speaker of the House of Representatives.”
“I’ve already figured most of that out.”
“Want to go straight to the G&R, then?” she asked.
Bishop grinned. The G&R was always the best. It consisted of known, or strongly suspected, gossip and rumors. “Okay,” he said.
“Well, for starters, his first wife died under mysterious circumstances in the mid-seventies.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he was questioned, but no charges filed.”
“What else?”
“Looks like McFadden ran for county judge back in the late seventies—soundly defeated and never stood for elected office again. There have been several hikers who disappeared in the area of Gallinas Peak and McFadden’s ranch. They were never found, and McFadden refused authorities permission to search his property. He supposedly mounted his own search with his ranch hands. Also, apparently, there was a large fire in the area of the ranch in 2004. Story is he had something to do with it.”
Bishop furrowed his brow. “Why would he want to start the fire?”
“Some believe he wanted to discourage future hikers and folks visiting the national forest from straying onto his land.”
“So he burns it down?”
Lisa laughed again. “Hey, he’s your problem—not mine. Sounds like some kind of nut. And another thing, his wife Minerva has been treated at least twice for bipolar disorders. Used to be an actress—mostly B movies.” Lisa’s voice faded a little more before the signal became stronger. “One last thing, but I don’t think it’s very significant.”
The shower turned off in Cora’s bathroom.
Lisa took a breath. “McFadden was one of the original thirteen people in 1972 that entered balloons into the first Albuquerque Balloon Festival.”
Bishop’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”
“Yeah, he’s entered and piloted his balloon, The Spirit of Liberty, in every festival since, except this year.”
“Hold on, isn’t this year the fiftieth anniversary of the festival?”
“Yes.”
Bishop’s gut had that feeling. The one he got upon realizing he’d just discovered something important. He looked back in the direction of Cora’s bedroom door and dropped his voice. “Then I find that piece of information the most significant of all.”
“Why?” Lesa’s puzzled voice asked.
“Because when a man changes a long-held tradition for no apparent reason, it means something.”
Bishop drew back the curtains and peeked out the window into Cora’s front yard. The rain hadn’t slacked much, but the skies weren’t as dark as before. The best smell he could imagine on a cold, rainy day drifted from the kitchen. Whatever Cora was baking made his mouth water—some kind of pastry or bread. Cora strolled into the kitchen. She wore jeans and a dark blue turtleneck, with her hair in a half-dried short ponytail. She stopped and kissed him.
“Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Smells good, what is it?”
“My favorite comfort food—chicken pot pie.”
Bishop slipped on a pair of warm socks and hiking boots, and Cora poured wine before serving the meal. He cracked the top crust of his pie with his fork and steam rolled out. “There’s one thing I don’t get,” he said.
She looked up. “About what?”
“I can see how McFadden keeps these kids under control at the ranch, but once the scouts leave for college, they’re on their own—right?”
Cora shook her head. “Not hardly. Most attend the University of New Mexico for their undergraduate degrees. McFadden keeps homes near the campus for them. He has house counselors to oversee the students. He even has a house for the few girls selected to attend college—that’s where I stayed.” She looked up and met Bishop’s stare, then shrugged. “For those who attend schools for advanced degrees, like MIT, Stanford, and Berkley, McFadden makes special arrangements on a case-by-case basis. He has made considerable contributions to the schools he wants his best and brightest to attend.
Cora must have believed she saw disapproval in Bishop’s eyes because she explained. “I had to do it if I wanted an education.”
They ate in silence for the next few minutes. Finally, Cora said, “A few girls are allowed to attend college occasionally. They are the teachers at the academy, nurses at the clinic, and other traditionally female jobs which require degrees. At some point, they’re matched with a scout as a mate.”
She gazed at her plate and moved the food around.
Bishop looked. “Matched? What does that mean?”
“Just what it implies. McFadden’s people pick a male and female student in good health that scored high on the IQ test and match them.”
Bishop had never heard anything so ridiculous. He didn’t question what she said, but it was right out of the Middle Ages if it were true. But there was also a more subtle, sinister aspect to what Cora said. A man who would build his own town, populating it with people utterly loyal to him, might just try and create his own race…
Bishop didn’t want to ask but did. “Who were you matched with?”
She shrugged again, keeping her eyes on the plate. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“Why?”
She shot a glance. “He graduated three years ago from college and was commissioned as a new lieutenant in the Army.”
“Where’s he now?”
She didn’t answer at first, just looked at him. Finally, she whispered, “Dead, he lasted three and a half months in Afghanistan before an IED…”
“Sorry.”
Cora began clearing dishes to the kitchen sink.
Bishop remained seated. “Were you engaged? You know, before he left.”
She stared at him as though the question was strange. A look of realization finally spread over her face. She walked back into the small dining area.
“When I said we were matched, I meant it literally. We were never intended to marry. He would leave, and I would stay and raise our child. That’s the way McFadden likes it. He gives ten thousand dollars each to the couple for producing a male child. We were free to marry whom we chose, but not before giving McFadden at least one child.”
Bishop’s eyes widened. “What?”
“My match was killed before that happened.”
Bishop stood and walked to the fireplace. He wanted to believe her, but the story seemed so bizarre he struggled to comprehend it. To think that something like this was going on for so long without anyone spilling the beans was incomprehensible.
She slowly moved to him. “McFadden encourages all Apache to take Anglo mates. As I said, he wants to dilute the race. He’s no friend to us.” She put her arms around Bishop’s waist, and he hugged her. “My mother was full apache, but my father came from an old southern family in Louisiana.”
He gently stroked her soft hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Don’t be, it’s over now. After Cliff was killed, they decided to match me with another. When I resisted, they pressured me until I finally left. Samuel had already moved out years earlier, so I moved in with him until I got this job with the Forest Service.”
He pushed her back slightly. “We need to talk about something.”
She grimaced, and her brow pinched. “Is it something bad?”
“It might be.”
“I hate spoiling the rest of this evening with bad talk.”
“I understand, but you need to know this.”
He led her to the sofa and told her about the previous night’s prowler and the ambush that afternoon. To his surprise, she seemed to take it all in stride.
“I kinda suspected McFadden has been keeping an eye on me since I left the ranch—that’s just his way.”
Bishop’s cell ringing interrupted his thought.
“This is Bishop.”
“Maxwell here; I have a message from General Cook.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He wants to see you in his office at 10:00 AM the day after tomorrow.”
Bishop glanced at Cora. “Is he aware I’m on to something out here?”
“Yes, that’s why he wants to see you.”
“Do you know what it’s about, sir?”
“Yes. See you day after tomorrow.”
Maxwell hung up without further explanation. Bishop looked at Cora, and her expression said it all—suspicion.
“Who was that?”
“The office.”
Her eyes pinched. “What did you mean, you were on to something?”
He walked nearer to the fireplace. That was a huge mistake, taking a business call in front of her. “I’m working on a project out here, that’s all.”
She strolled beside him. “You carry a gun, you’re an expert shot, and you can defend yourself from three attackers. A few nights ago, you told me and Samuel you were a consultant from Washington and on vacation. Now you tell your office you’re on to something—explain, please.”
Bishop gave his best contrite look. “Well, to be honest, I’m looking for something stolen from the government last week near here.”
“Such as?”
“Such as something I can’t talk about.”
Her lips flattened into white slashes, and she crossed her arms. “So you work for the government?”
“The Defense Department, to be exact.” He showed a shy grin.
“Why didn’t you just say that Friday night?”
“Because sometimes it’s easier to find something when no one knows you’re looking for it.”
Her expression softened. “So, you’re a cop or something?”
He took her into his arms and leaned closer to give her a kiss. Just before their lips met, he whispered, “Yeah, or something.”
